


Death in a Tarot Card

by concertconfetti



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Multi, Other, The Fade, self-indulgent elf party
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-17 23:46:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16984101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concertconfetti/pseuds/concertconfetti
Summary: Atarra Lavellan wakes up in the Fade with an old friend and some new acquaintances. Something is holding them here, and until they find out what, they're stuck together.





	1. Rude Awakenings

Atarra groaned and rolled to her side. Everything hurt - her head throbbed and her left arm…

Her left arm. She didn’t have a forearm, and yet it ached to the bone. She sat up, eyes wide, searching her left arm for the lightning strike scars at her elbow. The solidness of her left forearm startled her, but she was taught well, and as she continued to stare down her elbow in disgust, it eased into a pale green translucence. Atarra pressed the phantom limb into the ground - it still held her weight, refusing to fade into nothing. Fair enough.

The elf heaved herself off the ground, her eyes adjusting to the permanent haze of the Fade quickly. She had spent her few lazy afternoons here a mere three years ago. The room around her coagulated into a round tower, framed on all sides with traditional elven paintings of the Inquisitor's exploits. She hadn’t been the Inquisitor for a while, hadn’t seen this room in years, and yet the sting of seeing his work…

“Gods be damned,” Atarra said, gritting her teeth against a growing migraine. The Fade was nothing if not cruel. 

Skyhold was empty, for the most part, save for a few mounds of fabric scattered across the hall. Atarra leaned against the entrance to the tower, willing herself to see spirits hiding in the bodies on the floor. Alas, she never had the skill to see through illusions on that scale. She sighed and felt the weight of a bow and quiver rest on her shoulders. “Guess we’re going with the ‘stab if demon’ route today,” she muttered, pulling an arrow from her quiver and venturing into the hall. 

There were three heaps, one of which Atarra quickly identified as Fenris, based on the descriptions Varric had given her. His breathing was shallow, and his limbs twitched as though he were stuck in a nightmare. Well...another nightmare. The Fade made Atarra’s head hurt sometimes. She approached the darker elf cautiously and rested a hand on his shoulder. 

This is how Atarra found herself lying on her back, the wind knocked out of her chest. Every tattoo on the elf’s skin was alight; the lyrium balled in his fist burned Atarra’s wrist. She looked at him upside down 

“Woah hold on,” she said. 

“Give me a reason, demon, you can’t fool me,” Fenris growled through his teeth. Atarra raised her left arm in a gesture of surrender. 

“Not a demon, promise,” she said, adding, “I’d probably look like Hawke if I was, wouldn’t I?” 

Fenris squinted at Atarra before slowly letting go of her arm. He squares his shoulders, folding his arms across his chest. Atarra sighs, easing herself off of the stone. It might be Fade-made, but the impact still left her back bruised. “Thank you,” she said. 

“Don’t expect me to trust you,” Fenris said, huffing and pulling his hair out of his eyes. He tied it in a knot at the back of his head. 

“Cheery. I’m not asking for trust, I’d just rather not die in the Fade, thank you.” The other people in the room began to stir at the commotion. Two other elves, one in elaborate, gold plated armor, another in well made leathers branded with a wolf’s head. “No.” Atarra said flatly. Fenris watched her pull an arrow out of her quiver, knock it, and launch it at one of the elves. The tip of the arrow grazed his ear. 

The elegantly dressed, bald elf hisses, grabbing his ear. The swear that leaves his lips is a mixture of Tevene and Elvhen. His companion leapt to their feet, grabbing at daggers sheathed at their back, clearly ready for a fight. Fenris and Atarra watch their eyes dart between the two of them before sighing and putting their daggers away. The other elf, still sitting, turns around, and his face falls. 

"Hello lover," Atarra said quietly. She walked down the elaborately embroidered carpet to help Solas off the ground. "We need to chat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back on my bullshit, here's the first part of a fic that I may or may not finish. My goal, sincerely, is to finish. Watch this space. 
> 
> All elvhen language is based on existing vocabulary but is mostly made up. 
> 
> For example: Ar darea amahn ma - I would be stuck here with you


	2. This Side of Awkward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick conversations at two ends of the hall

“Name’s Enasalin,” Enasalin said, holding out their hand toward Fenris. The vaguely-glowing elf frowned, keeping his arms folded. “Touching is a no go then? Fair enough.” Enasalin smiled softly and turned toward the front of the hall. Her boss and the Inquisitor were standing near a lit fireplace, attempting to out-cold the other as they spoke in whispers. 

“Former partners, then,” Fenris said, nodding toward the pair. Enasalin nodded. 

“Yeah, the Boss isn’t the best with people,” she said. “He’s sort of married to his goals in a way that the Inquisitor can’t abide. Understandable really.” 

“She ended it then?” 

“Oh, fuck no, he dumped her like a tonne of bricks in the middle of nowhere,” Enaslin said, an off-putting brightness in their voice. “We’d give him shit about it but Fen’Harel doesn’t have much of a sense of humor these days.” 

Fenris shifted uncomfortably on the balls of his feet. That hit a bit close to home, now that he thought about it. He knew the Inquisitor’s position all to well and….wait. 

“Did you say Fen’Harel?” Fenris asked. "As in 'may the dread wold take you', Fen'Harel?" 

"You don't look like the type to know the old gods." Enasalin said with a sly smile. "Nor elvhen swears." 

"I spent time around a...diverse...crowd in Kirkwall." Discomfort pulls at the corners of Fenris' eyes. As much as Merrill may have put him off, she was a dear friend of Margo Hawke's, and she had dedicated herself to keeping elves of all sorts safe from the shitstorm around Kirkwall. She deserved a kinder descriptor than bloodmage, he supposed. 

"Aye, I've read the Tale of the Champion," Enasalin said, "Most of the crew has. We live in complex times." 

"But what is the Inquisitor doing calling a man claiming to be Fen'Harel lover?" 

"Like I said, complex times."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck it the format is just gonna be weird with this one guys!


End file.
